"And, even if I were sure of understanding her—there's myself. Look at the position, now. I suppose I may call myself a successful man; well on the way to success, at all events. Unless fortune plays me a dirty trick, I ought soon to be making my three or four thousand a year; and there's the possibility of double that. Think what that means, in the way of opportunity. Once or twice, when I was going to see the Crosses, I've pulled myself up and asked what the deuce I was doing—but I went all the same. The truth is, there's something about Bertha—I wish you knew her, Warburton; I really wish you did. She's the kind of girl any man might marry. Nothing brilliant about her—but—well, I can't describe it. As different as could be from—the other. In fact, it isn't easy to see how they became such close friends. Of course, she knows all about me—what I'm doing, and so on. In the case of an ordinary girl in her position, it would be irresistible; but I'm not at all sure that she looks at it in that way. She behaves to one—well, in the most natural way possible. Now and then I rather think she makes fun of me."
Warburton allowed a low chuckle to escape him.
"Why do you laugh?—I don't mean that she does it disagreeably. It's her way to look at things on the humorous side—and I rather like that. Don't you think it a good sign in a girl?"
"That depends," muttered Will.
"Well, that's how things are. I wanted to tell you. There's nobody else I should think of talking to about it."
Silence hung between them for a minute or two.
"You'll have to make up your mind pretty soon, I suppose," said Warburton at length, in a not unpleasant voice.
"That's the worst of it. I don't want to be in a hurry—it's just what I don't want."
"Doesn't it occur to you," asked Will, as if a sudden idea had struck him, "that perhaps she's no more in a hurry than you are?"
"It's possible. I shouldn't wonder. But if I seem to be playing the fool—?"